Shirtless, Dirty and Back to Alcatraz

Between intervals at swim practice, James Moore pestered me with instructions on how to deal things that I would never need to know.

Why on earth (for one minute), would I ever need instructions on how to deal with a charging bull. 

Turns out I was wrong as I describe the worst trip ever and nine million reasons to be happy.

I had just finished one year in high school but I have already known James Moore for two years—we spent a year together in 8^th grade in advanced math.

He came from Corpus Christi in the Palisades and I came from Saint Marks in Venice and we met each morning for zero period in Santa Monica at Saint Monicas—thatwas fall of 69 and spring of 1970.

Can you image me in advanced anything?  Neither could I. 

But somehow geometry came easy to me – it was visual, numbers didn’t lie or talk back and was not nearly as complicated as girls. It’s people that I had the hardest time figuring out—add to that this little thing called love—wow, was I lost!

Anyway, James was brilliant and his mind was full of all kinds of useless data that he stored up in the depths of his gray matter like a giant filing-cabinet.

Atwater polo and swim practice he would come off with ridiculous things like – how to identify a mail bomb or how to foil a UFO abduction.

UFO! Serious? I figured that might not be so necessary for me, but could come in handy for Joey Lennon or Kippy Lennon since we almost burned down their housewith the launch of one of our infamous Dahlin UFOs of flaming death.

Charging bulls—forget about it.

Anyway that’s what I thought until Venice Troop 32 decided to take an ill-fated trip to the Sacramento Delta’s for summer camp. (I laugh to myself as I use the “ill-fated” boy scout trip, because everything we did turned out to be ill-fated—like the time our troop from Venice sabotaged the National Jamboree,like the White-Angel midnight raids on Troop 34 at Camp Slauson in Malibu and like the time the Scout Master decided to drive over the bridge).

This inglorious group of optimistic misfits piled in the back of the Scout Truck (if you can call it that). It was actually diabolical experiment, where we were used as lab rats by scientist to observe the effects of carbon monoxide poisoning. Hence the MMA cage fighting, the mooning, and peeing out the back at passerby’s. I’m sure that if we were tried in a court of law we would not have been convicted due to the toxic fumes we were subjected to and inhaled the entire way.  

SACRAMENTO GET READY. With Karl’s new boat in tow we headed toward the Deltas—fighting—mooning little old ladies—and peeing out the back.

  

We took the old ‘59 Johnson motor off of the decrepit wooden boat that PatGhering, Karl and I almost died in (off of Marina Del Rey) and put the tired motor on a boat that actually had fiberglass.

Dude, we were moving up—Beverly Hills style.

Anyway, I felt dad would let me be the one who was responsible for the “new” boat, but he made Ray in charge.                    You heard me right—Ray—not me!

We got to the Delta’s and Ray took off in the Dahlin-boat speeding by the rest of us who felt like trapped rats on top of the houseboat. There he was, smug, zipping by as we were tortured by the smell of the septic tank vented out top where we slept and were forced to hang out every second of every day.   
 

                Me       

Steve Kissel 

We were not allowed to go down inside the houseboat to escape the heat of the day—shade, comfort and cooler temperatures were reserved for the scoutmasters and leaders.

I wanted my dad’s approval and thought he would have said I was the guy to be in charge of the Dahlin boat and felt disappointment and that disappointment led to bitterness. I wanted his blessing but it went to Ray, instead.

So I started a rebellion that ended with me either pealing potatoes... (picture to Left)

... or serving time in the BRIGG – aka – the KYBO –  the bathroom – the outhouse. 

No, not just an ordinary outhouse, but an outhouse in which the contents were constantly being sloshed back and forth by wakes and snotty-nosed-kids on top rocking the houseboat back and forth and what-not. Needless to say with my superpowers—I lost mostof the food contents of my stomach as I puked out the window every three minutes.

Then the accident. Yes, another accident. I think the Scoutmaster thought boats should behave like cars. Hello, cars have brakes. We were cutoff coming around the corner of a delta “T-intersection” and I guess he thought after throwing the 52-foot behemoth in full reverse that he could simply step on the brakes. It doesn’t work that way – it has something to do with math. I didn’t know the formula – but I did know that it had something to do with weight and velocity and force and momentum involving inertia (in other words a boat does not have four wheels making contact with the ground and does not stop like a car).  

He threw the engine into forward but it was too late.

The Scoutmaster reversed the boat into a low hanging branch that plowed through the back door–which kept plowing through the back door, and the wall, and through a couple bunks and about ten feet through the houseboat. We were skewered right up to the kitchen.

In my rebellion, I loved it! It served everybody right.

While the Scoutmasters brainstormed the solution (that didn’t seem to involve any of us lab rats), Steve Kissel and I escaped. We climbed out across the large branch of the oak tree and into freedom. We ran wild in some farmer’s cornfield. Playing hide-and-go-seek, we picked ears of corn and threw them like hand-grenades at each other.

Eventually, knowing that we would have to come back to giant houseboat Shish-Kabob we felt we had better bring back a peace offering as a penance for leaving Alcatraz.

Shirts stuffed with corncobs and walking down a slopping field we encountered a bull blocking our path. Turns out that the bull was as insane as the attackveloci-rooster in the Dahlin backyard.

Giving us fair warning the angry beast snorted, stomped his foot and headed in our direction.  The odds were stacked against us. We were at least 500 yards from a fence in any direction.

What the heck did James Moore say about dealing with a charging bull? What was it? What did he say between laps of 200-yard-freestyle? 

UGHHhhh…Mark can’t you remember anything?

First we split up. Maybe one of us would live to tell about it. The bull charged Kissel. I was free and knew that he would most likely die. I decided to take my treasured peace-offering and began firing them at the charging thousand-pound-predator like hand-grenades. One solid whack to the noggin worked! The bull stopped short of killing Kissel—looked at me with those crazy rooster-eyes and headed in my direction.

Running zig-zags, throwing corn over my shoulder, depleting my resources, I figured by some kind of subconscious math calculations that I could not beat the bull to the fence and that I was a goner (in other words the bull could run faster than me).

Steve ripped his shirt off, ran in my direction and began doing the bull-fighting “Toro” dance. By golly it worked. Stupid bull. Now Steve was in trouble, so I ripped off my shirt and ran to the bull like a brave Matador waving my boy scout shirt as if it were a red cape. The ignorant brute could not resist the temptation and took off in my direction. This time, however, closer to the fence I tossed my shirt giving Kissel and I enough time to leap over the fence.  We somersaulted straight into a lush blackberry bush—and we commenced to roll headlong down the dirt grade. 

Never mind that fact that we looked like bloody refugees–we lived to tell about it.

Dirty, shirtless, bleeding and scratched, blackberry stains from head to toe, we climbed back across the oak limb into the houseboat. We ended up taking turns for the duration of the trip in solitary confinement in the stinking-hot poop-sloshing Brigg. I puked my guts out–but this time it was worth it.

This would go down in history as the worst summer camp ever.

The only highlight of the notorious Delta-trip was that at night we made up mean songs about Ray and his boat with the 35 horse-power motor that refused to start after the second day. I was happy about the callouses he had from futilely pulling the starter rope—some nine million times.







(Paddling the boat back) 

              (Towing it behind the houseboat)

With plenty of time to think in the KYBO—I realized that I just wanted dad’s approval and that none of this was Ray’s fault. It fueled the bitterness I felt from the primal yearning for belonging. 

Fitting in was easy. I was good at it. But fitting in, is the enemy of belonging.* Fitting in means you shape yourself to meet others expectations, but belonging means that you are accepted for you are, warts and all.  

I couldn't wait to get back to Venice once again and back to my friends for a new school year at St. Mos. I don't think I'll tell James Moore about my bullfighting career, but I do think I will share some of the stuff I know - stuff from Venice that really matters like shoving potatoes in the tailpipe of a car  (next time). 

*Brene Brown "The Gifts of Imperfection"
KYBO Boy Scout acronym for bathroom or outhouse - Keep Your Bowls Open (no joke)

Muhammad Ali and I Go Down!

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO….!"

I screamed loud enough to be heard by the neighbors―loud enough to be heard by the Lennons on the corner!  

said Joey

asked Kippy

"What's wrong with you" dad asked examining the front page of the LA Times staring down at the horrific results of the FIGHT OF THE CENTURY. 

Without having to turn to the sports page it was right there in the headlines. Ali had lost!                                                                                                                                                   "It can't be" I said. "Impossible."                                                                                                                                                       My dad was surprised, but not shocked like me.  

They wondered...  Hide your wife. Hide your kids.                                                                                                                          

   Hamper                                                                   Electrocution                                                 Veloci-Raptor 

"But we had a contract...he promised to knock Frazier out in 6 rounds"

Dad furled his brow and stared incredulously at me. "Vad är fel med dig?" he said in Swedish. 

  

Dad didn't get it. "This can't be!" 

He set his paper down and raised a brow as if waiting for my answer. 

"You don't get it." I said. And he didn't. "That might as well be me in there." 

               Another blank stare.

"What chance do I have now of becoming anything more than moldy bread."

I got this look like I should have been committed to the insane asylum at Camarillo.

Obviously he didn't know what Muhammad Ali said about moldy bread and penicillin.

"We had a contract," I said waiving my arms. "He promised me that I was destined not to be moldy bread"

My poor father had no idea what I was talking about. "Come here and let me look at your tongue," he said.

I did and then realized that he was looking into my eyes. I knew what he was doing. He was scared. He thought that maybe I had discovered the Mexican Tomato plants in the backyard and had started puffing on the "Mary Jane." He was afraid I had turned to the dark side... 

"Dad...No! Tony Alva...whatever..."  He was more confused than ever. 

Ali's victory was my victory. This fight meant that I could become someone and now I have no chance. I felt like everyone kept lying to me. First it was Phyllis Diller now it's Ali. Adults and their promises and their Prophecies just can't be trusted.  

The Blasers next door heard the scream.                                                                                                        "What's the screaming," said Tommy in alarm pulling on his grandpa's shirt.  
                                                                                         

 "It went the full fifteen," my dad said.

 It was me. I had been knocked down.











"Unanimous decision." He continued.


 I felt sucker punched. "ughhhh!" Not by Frazier, but by Ali.










  thought one of the neighbors

"Ali...Ali...Ali...Ali...how could you do this to me?" I said walking away talking to my dog, Poochie.

Poochie was minding her own business, enjoying the warmth of the sun―trying to stay out of it.                                                                                            
I was rejected by Andrea and the world had just shifted off its axis. Bent I'm telling you.

I turned around and my Dad's eyes were still trailing me. He watched for a little bit and said something else in Swedish, "Galen!" 

It's been less than a month and the city was still recovering from the big Sylmar earth quake that hit back in February.

Frank Nargie the mailman who lived across the street said he was outside when it hit and saw our big old house rock back and forth. He said he thought it was going to fall over. Two of the boy on the third floor got knocked out of their beds and another rattlesnake got loose. I remember feeling like I was on a ship being tossed back and forth by a storm. 

It was tragic. Fourteen people were killed. Two Hospitals collapsed. Governor Reagan declares a State of Emergency and appealed to President Nixon for Federal aid. 

                                                                               

"Earthquake―Smearthquake" I felt like I had been rocked from my foundation and in a personal state of emergency. Who do I appeal to?  I tried God and that didn't seem to work.

Who could I trust?

I swan and improved on my times in the Butterfly. But I still sucked. In my first race I was so terrible that a guy with a broken arm and plastic bag over his cast beat me.

                                                                                                                                         

I finished my first swim season at Saint Monicas, but  really didn't care a whole lot  about competing. It was pretty simple―I had given up on the notion that I could discover what true love was about and settled on finding friendship and fitting in. 

Distance and distrust was best.   

I wanted to fit―belong―find my place, not win gold medals. Kurt the "big Saint Monica's scoring champion" was up at Humboldt University and becoming more of a hippie. I could never be like him―why try! Ali lost. Adults are not to be trusted. I realized that life was easier as a robot and decided to withdraw into my own world where it was a little safer.  

More aftershocks...then the "Hensheys Incident of 1971" in Santa Monica!

  and off to Dachau ...but why?  

Hensheys picture credit: Facebook post by Michael Hayasi "You know you're from Santa Monica If" group May 2016 

     

To Toke or Not to Toke - The Law of the Jungle

Captain's Log: Star-date 1971  

To smoke or not to smoke?  That was the question (this is where I left off last time).

Tony Alva offered me an olive branch or a “peace pipe” of acceptance. 

I was in.

By smoking his doobie I could freely roam the ruins of Pacific Ocean Park pier. This certainly took the edge off the feeling that I had been rejected by Andrea—my one true love.  

In that second, I thought about love and how desperately I wanted to know the feeling that other people feel. When Andrea wrapped herself around the neck of that surfer-dude from Santa Monica my dreams were now dashed like a shipwreck being tossed back and forth on an angry tide on the jagged Santa Monica breakwater rocks.  

This kid inhaled and held it out to me. 

If I was going to toke on a joint for the first time—it should be with the Wolf Pack.  

Smoking pot just might be my way in.

Maybe my older brothers and the other Harding Hippies would accept me and want me around for something more than just a play toy or to experiment with some newfangled trap of some sort.   

Waving him off, Tony frowned, shrugged his shoulders and passed it along. He and his tribe allowed me to slip away from the domain of his rat’s nest unharmed.  

POP was nothing like it's glory days.  

The walk home to Venice was a good time to think. I paused under the 200-year-old Banyan Fig tree at Hollister Ave and Neilson Way and eventually crossed over at “Heroine Park” at Main Street and Westminster.

I walked down Washington Blvd that was nothing more than a bunch of old vacant and rundown buildings behind the ghetto.

I thought about visiting Dego who lived on Electric, but decided to head back to Hippy Central at my house—via the Venice Troop 32 Boy Scout House near the railroad tracks.  A bounce returned to my step. 

Even though I had a dark secret I was not a victim.         I had friends. 

I belonged to a group of water polo players and swimmers at Saint Monica’s. 

I belonged to Troop 32. Heck yeah, we were the most disorderly Boy Scout Troop in the world, but I belonged and had fought my way to the top of that kingdom hierarchy. 

  

So Andrea chose another…so what?  I had a best friend next door and the craziest family in the animal kingdom.  

 

Still?

I wanted to belong to my own pack at home. I wanted to be accepted by my own and protected.  

Maybe Tony Alva was on to something. 

Maybe the way to join my brother’s club was to be become a reefer-smoking-junior-hippie. 

But, what if I said yes and what if I took a hit and what if they still rejected me—what then?

 

I wanted in—I think?

NOW this is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky,

And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the wolf that shall break it must die.      

As the creeper that girdles the tree trunk, the law runneth forward and back;       

For the strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.

Walking up Crestmore Ave Mrs. Gass saw me talking to myself—arguing with God really, but she didn’t know that.  I smiled and waved. 

God is this too much to ask for?

I nodded to Leland as I rounded the corner and eventually made it home to the most exciting house in America or in California—certainly in Venice. 

"Hi Mrs. Mcclain"

"Hi Mrs. Tripp"

"Hi Mrs. Blaser"

    yep—yep I could hear Mrs Nargie.

It was late and by this time, the backyard was bound to full of a menagerie of Lennons, Blasers, Grants, the H Club, Kleghorn, stragglers and strangers.   

I was finally home to scheming hippies and hibernating turtles. Home to the infamous Veloci-Raptor who made war with a Catholic nun. 

Home to vagrant carburetors and leaning towers of a half-century’s worth of decaying National Geographic’s. Chickens outside of cages and rabbits inside poorly constructed ones. 

Cars on blocks—three sailboats and a 1956 MG cohabitating under the palm tree. 

Rusted bikes with missing wheels, outboard motors in trashcans full of water, lawnmowers that I don’t think ever worked and several tools we borrowed from the Blasers (borrowed in the loose translation of the word). 

And lots of cars that didn’t work and trucks used as trash barges.   

I was home. Home to the snakes, the chuckwallas, the Iguanas, Leopard lizards and two new kittens on the porch. 

Best of all, I was home to my favorite person on earth—my little beagle Pooch.  Now, all I would have to do is go to the back and smoke some hooch. 

Yes I was home, but with a hole in my heart and contemplating my future being spurned by Andrea and being apart.

Home without a girlfriend or Pack –tree trunk forward or back—no strength—no place in the jungle in a law as old and as true as the sky, no way to prosper—and feeling like I wanted to die. 

Why Andrea? Why?

I took two steps and stopped and couldn’t bring myself to go back—there was someone I feared in the Pack.

I strapped on my boxing gloves and lay down in bed—I pleaded or fought or yelled at God and told Him it was His fault and then asked for His protection against the evil we had unleashed into the world.   

Next Stop: The Venice BSA Infection spreads to the Sacramento Deltas via the concentration camp at Dachau... and who let Lyman drive the houseboat anyway?   

And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the wolf that shall break it must die.  

Images credits: 

Kids running at ruins of POP Facebook post (don't know who to credit)

POP ruins: Facebook post the rise and fall of Pacific Ocean Park 

POP bubbles: Facebook  Photos of Los Angeles by Bill Gabel

POP in its Glory days Postcard: Facebook (don't know who to credit) 

All other pictures: mine